


the lure of autumn's sway

by objectlesson



Category: Cars (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Drinking, First Time, Glory Hole, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pubic Hair, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23134540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: “Are you asking me about the first time I ever touched a man?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at Lightning, whose already-red cheeks deepen another shade.“I mean. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want,” he offers, cocking his head.But crazy enough, Docdoeswant to. He feels like they’re hurtling down some wild and overgrown path together in the night, and they might tumble into a ravine, they might find each other in the dark. He’s not sure, and that means he has to keep giving until he sees the out to its end.
Relationships: Doc Hudson/Lightning McQueen
Comments: 26
Kudos: 95





	the lure of autumn's sway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [docmcqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/docmcqueen/gifts).



> This is a gift for my WONDERFUL SUPPORTIVE ANGEL OF A FRIEND THAIS!! I love you so much, thank you always for your endless encouragement, and always crawling into whatever weird ass gutter I'm writing in and reading just because it's me. I honestly don't think I would have gotten so into cars fic and left the hell hole 1d fandom is it weren't for you, so thanks for changing my life for the better. And also just being a kind, hilarious person, and a fellow crazy bird lady. I love you so much and I hope you love this fic!!! It has all the dirty stuff u like <3 
> 
> for the rest of you: this is my OTP and yes this story is like all my other stories about them but I don't care I just LOVE THEM and I will write about them finding each other over and over again no matter what!!!

Somewhere between McQueen’s fourth beer and Doc’s third jack on ice, it falls out of him like stones from rain-eroded earth. 

“Hey,” Lightning slurs, spread across the couch so the one outstretched leg he has propped up on the coffee table keeps knocking against Doc’s knee. Moments of fleeting, accidental contact that stop Doc’s heart dead in its tracks every time. “Can I ask you a sort of personal question?” 

It feels invasive, just to hear him _ask_ to ask. But Doc chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, deciding it’s ok to let Lightning get away with pushing, when _he_ ’s the one who’s always tripping over whatever boundaries they may or may not have laid down between them, railroad ties half-buried in sand. 

Because the truth is, Doc gets lost in things he shouldn’t: staring at the golden stubble on Lightning’s upper lip, wondering what it would feel like under his tongue. Rubbing a hungry palm up his spine when Lightning falls into his arms after a tough workout, salt crusted in the hair matted down from his helmet, begging for praise, for reassurance. Doc is always wishing for unwishable wishes, and maybe that means Lighting’s allowed to dig wherever he wants to dig, even if he might stumble across old bones, rotted treasure chests. “Shoot,” he mumbles, drink burning down his throat even though it’s more than half melted ice at this point. 

“Ok, so,” he says, sitting up, like this question requires an upright spine. His cheeks are pink, and Doc is not sure if it’s the beer, or the wondering, the anticipation of uncovering some shameful truth. “How did you know—or like, _when_ did you know you were gay?” 

Doc scoffs. Men have asked him this before. Sometimes, before they drink enough to try it once. Sometimes, before they tell him he’s a dirty bastard and throw a punch. Lightning falls somewhere in between, he thinks: genuinely curious, mostly, maybe too stupid and too sweet to know he’s being offensive. And on a normal night, Doc might brush him off, refuse to answer. He’s dodged enough of Lightning’s prodding in the past to know he gives up after a while, but—he’s drunk, and he’s tired, and he feels _worn down_ by the way this boy is all over his couch, knees spread and jeans riding low enough Doc can see too much of his boxers, since he took his belt off hours ago to get more comfortable and there’s nothing holding the denim over his narrow hips. So, he stares at his empty glass and admits, “I’ve always known, I think. But I started actually figuring out it was a for sure thing when I was a teenager. All my friends were scheming on how to get girls, how to get them alone to kiss in the big empty field behind the schoolhouse and I—I just wanted to watch old actors on TV. I wanted to hide behind the wheel of a car.” 

“Alright, was there. I dunno, a particular guy, one you knew, who sealed the deal for you?” Lightning asks, eyes flashing. He’s rapt, which is saying a lot, because he can drift when he’s drinking, half listen, attention split and roaming all over the room like a searchlight. 

Doc thinks back hard, tries to remember the first flesh and blood man. “When I started racing, there were a few hot-shots, a little older than me. Good, well known drivers. I didn’t know if I wanted to be them, or something else. It was probably something else. That’s my earliest memory of it, I guess.” 

Lightning whistles through his teeth after a loaded moment of silence. “Huh,” is what he says eventually, before sinking back into the couch cushions. It’s in this moment that Doc wonders why in the hell he was asking. But before he can get hopeful and shoot that hope down with an arrow to its chest like he fucking always does, Lightning is lifting his foot from the table, and setting it back down in Doc’s lap. He digs the heel of his tattered red Chuck Taylor into the meat of his thigh, loose skin shifting under the pressure. 

“Ok, got another for you,” he asks, reaching down to his half-empty six-pack and popping a can. “When did you start like, actually thinking about _fucking_ guys. Or I dunno, getting fucked. Like. when did it it become a sex thing for you, instead of some…not-into-girls, _too-_ into-racing-rival thing?” 

And this is so specific, Doc’s head spins. Hope gets harder to shoot dead when boys act like this, when their eyes light up, when their cheeks are stained a guilty, curious red. “Jesus,” he mumbles, getting up and out from under the weight of Lightning’s foot. “I need more whiskey if we’re gonna be rooting around in my past.” 

“Bring me a shot, too,” Lighting asks, and so, he pours a pair. His hands shake, and he tells himself it’s because he’s old. Not because he’s letting himself wish unwishable wishes, not because he can’t kill hope when it rears up this big, this wild. 

When he returns, he passes the whiskey glass without looking at Lightning’s face, his crystal blue eyes, his lazy, crooked smile. Any single one of those things feels treacherous right now. “When I was a teenager I’d look at my friends when we’d strip down out of our clothes and jump into the lake. I thought—I thought everyone did it, until I figured out they didn’t. And then I decided I’d grow out of it, that it would just…disappear when I got old enough but, it didn’t go away. It got bigger. So, I _stopped_ looking at them. You Gotta understand that everything—my whole life became about _not_ looking. Trying to do anything but. And maybe it doesn't seem like it to you, but that _is_ a sex thing. That denial.” 

“Ok. And when did you stop denying it?” Lightning asks, throat rippling as he swallows and grimaces, which makes Doc realize he’s staring again, that his eyes always get drawn back to small, secret, perfect places on him no matter how hard he tries not to look. He’s rusty when it comes to the act of _not_ looking. Lightning swept into his life like a forest fire and lit up things he thought were long since charred past ever igniting. 

“Are you asking me about the first time I ever touched a man?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at Lightning, whose already-red cheeks deepen another shade.

“I mean. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want,” he offers, cocking his head. 

But crazy enough, Doc _does_ want to. He feels like they’re hurtling down some wild and overgrown path together in the night, and they might tumble into a ravine, they might find each other in the dark. He’s not sure, and that means he has to keep giving until he sees the out to its end. “I don’t know his name, never got it. He gave me a look in a rest stop bathroom the _day_ I hauled ass out of Thomasville for the first time. Don't remember why…maybe I was picking up some car part outside town, or just going for a drive. I was young, too young for him, but—I knew what I wanted. In retrospect, I could have gotten killed that day, but I didn’t know how risky it was yet, so. I followed him to his truck.” 

“Holy shit,” Lightning says, sputtering into his whiskey. “That’s—damn.” He scrubs his hand through his hair and you watch, wondering _what_ he was going to say. _That’s crazy, that’s disgusting, that’s hot. “_ And what did you do? Did he fuck you?” 

Doc’s throat feels tight, his cheeks burn as he shakes his head. “Nah, usually if you’re meeting guys in rest stop backrooms it’s to suck cock. So, I got on my knees in the backseat. Still remember seeing a pistol down there under the passenger’s side, and wondering if I should be scared. But I wasn't scared.” 

“Did you like it?” Lightning asks, then, voice reedy, almost _soft._ Like something Doc could sink his fingers into and have them come back dripping, sticky. His stomach plummets at the thought, and then, again, at the memory. 

“I loved it,” he confesses. “Still, to this day. My favorite thing to do.” 

“What, suck cock?” Lightning asks, squirming where he’s sitting there on the couch. And the motion is so indistinct Doc isn’t sure if he’s shifting imperceptibly closer, or recoiling. 

“Mhm,” Doc adds, staring at the bottom of his glass as he swirls the deep Amber dredges in a circular motion before throwing the last of his whiskey back. “Before it stopped being safe in the 80s, I’d always look for glory holes. You could find them in parks, at the right sort of club.” 

“Jesus _fuck,_ I legitimately always assumed stuff like that was a myth,” Lightning says. throwing his head back, staring at the ceiling. Now that his gaze is averted Doc lets himself steal a glance, and he’s only half-surprised to see that the crotch of his jeans are slightly tented. That he’s chubbing up in his sagging stonewashed denim. It stops his heart, makes his mouth water. Makes the thriving flame of hope flickering in his chest spark, and grow. “You know, there’s nothing like that for straight guys,” Lightning adds, spreading one palm low on his stomach, above the waistband of his boxers. He rucks up his shirt, thumbs over the thick trail of hair that leads from his navel down between his thighs, and _god,_ does he _know_ what he’s doing? Does he even realize he’s half hard, that he’s nearly touching himself? Doc isn’t sure, because in his experience Lightning has always been damn good at lying to himself. “If we want a blow job, we actually have to _romance_ a girl. Take her out to dinner. Sometimes I wish I could just stick my dick through a hole in the wall.” 

Doc says it before he can think his way out of it: “I mean, you could, kid. No one’s stopping you. A wet mouth is a wet mouth, it’s not like you’d even see it was a man. You could pretend it was whoever you wanted.” 

He laughs incredulously, eyes scrunching shut so his face is a mess of smile-lines creasing the crimson of shame. Doc wants to thumb over every one, feel the crinkle under his lips. He wants to be the wet mouth on the other side of a hole in the wall. “I guess, but I’d—I dunno, I’d _know._ Plus, I’m not sure anonymous sex is for me, anyway. I might not even be able to get it up,” he mumbles, just as he absentmindedly shoves just the tips of his fingers into his pants, under the elastic of his boxers, where the skin must be so fucking warm. His cock twitches in his jeans, and there’s no fucking way he doesn’t know what’s going on, so Doc is reeling, he’s trembling. He’s getting hot and thick and heavy, too, stomach in knots as Lightning’s gaze skirts up to him curiously and he asks, “You _like_ that? Like, just sucking a stranger’s dick?” 

Doc shrugs, insides twisting. “It’s better when it’s someone you know, and want. Or love,” he explains, the last word shooting needles through his chest like a heart attack, because it’s not a word he lets himself think often, let alone say _aloud._ With Lightning McQueen in the room, listening like every word is scripture. “But when you’re like me, you go weeks, months, years, even, without anything. When the world is too hostile, or dangerous. So yeah, sometimes a stranger’s cock is better than nothing.” 

Lightning palms all the way down between his splayed thighs boldly, touching himself through his jeans with just enough nonchalance Doc is still half-wondering if he’s conscious of it, if he’s teasing, if he’s lost. “When was the last time you got to suck cock?” he asks then, thumbing over the head of his cock where it’s pressed into the worn denim. It’s such a deliberate motion, such a deliberate _question,_ Doc’s heart stops for a moment before it speeds up, racing against his ribs. 

“I don’t remember,” he admits. “Too long ago.” 

“You miss it?” Lighting asks then, squeezing his cock before popping the button of his jeans suggestively. 

This is the moment Doc realizes that this is _actually_ happening, whatever it is. That Lightning is digging for a reason, that he’s panning for gold, that he _wants_ something. And even if that something is jacking off on Doc’s couch while he watches, then so be it. Doc gave up on being an honorable man a long time ago. “Of course I do,” he mumbles, setting his glass down on the coffee table deliberately, studying Lightning’s bright, scared eyes, his licked-wet mouth. His hand rubbing his cock, zipper rucked open obscenely, like an invitation. “You trying to tell me something, boy?” 

Lightning’s face crumples, his eyes glisten, his throat bobs as he swallows again and again. “If you want to, I’d let you suck my cock. Only if you wanted to. It’s not very big, but—but I—”

“You what?” Doc asks, already lowering himself shakily to the floor on his knees, just like he did fifty years ago, in the back of that Chevy in North Carolina, inches from a loaded gun. “You want me to? Say you want it, if you want it. I’ve already told you what I like,” he reminds him, laying a tentative hand on his thigh, feeling the heat of his skin bleeding through denim. 

Lightning makes a crushed, helpless sound in the back of his throat. “I want you to suck my cock,” he murmurs then, finally pushing his hand into his jeans to get it out, curling his fingers around the shaft, lifting his hips to wiggle out of his jeans and boxers. And he’s so fucking hard Doc groans deep and low in anticipation. His cock isn’t long but it’s thick and pink and pretty, glistening at the tip where he’s leaking precum. “I’ve been—I don’t know what’s _wrong_ with me, but I’ve been wanting it for so long. I think about it all the time.” 

“Shit,” Doc murmurs, settling closer, fitting himself between Lightning’s spread-wide knees. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re fucking perfect, c’mere,” he mumbles, replacing Lightning’s hand with his own, which nearly covers the whole of his length. He licks all that’s exposed, cleans the slick off hungrily, stunned by the spice and salt of it, the way his lungs are suddenly full of this _boy_ he’s been wanting, this boy who brought him back to life. And now he’s right here, on his couch, begging. “Gonna suck this cock so good,” he promises, rubbing his cheek against it, inhaling from his dark, sweat-damp pubes. “Gonna make you come so hard.” 

“Oh god— _fuck,”_ Lightning chokes out as he sinks down, swallows him inch by inch until the broad crown hits the back of his throat. “Doc.” 

Hearing his name makes him moan, a low appreciative mouthful as he drools on Lightning’s cock, drunk on the taste, the smell, the stretch. He’s never tasted something so fucking _good,_ and he’d settle for this and this alone. Being that wet mouth, anonymous and forgotten as Lightning imagined someone else, some pretty girl, but knowing it’s _him_ he wants? That he’s staring down at him from hooded lashes, touching the back of his neck with tentative fingers, calling his _name?_ It’s dizzying, makes him desperate, starved. He spreads his palms wide on Lightning’s thighs and pushes them wide apart and bobs his head, fucking his own mouth open on the burning heat of his cock for a few seconds before he pulls off in a mess froth of spit. “You doing ok?” he asks, because he needs to know. He needs to hear his voice, the way it gets when he's turned on, weak and ragged and worn thin like something loved worked over between careful hands. 

“So good,” Lightning rasps, mouth open, bitten. “What about you? As good as you remember? Having a cock in your mouth?” 

“Better than I remember,” Doc promises, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the underside, inhaling wet, musky lungfuls of him. “Told you. S’better when it’s someone you know. Someone you want.” _Someone you love_ remains implied and unspoken between them, and Lightning trembles, rubs his face against his shoulder, eyes flooded in overwhelm. 

“I hoped so bad you wanted this,” he murmurs, thumbing over the corner of Doc’s mouth experimentally as he laps at his cock on messy, aimless strokes. “But I was prepared to let you do it even if I was just—I dunno. Someone convenient.” 

Doc shakes his head, bowled over, shot through the heart. “You’re everything I want,” he rumbles, rubbing his lips raw against the hair on Lightning’s lower stomach. It’s so dark, so much darker than his blonde lashes and messy golden curls, and Doc has always wondered how thick his pubes are, if they grow down his thighs, if they smell as good and rich and mouth-watering as the rest of him. And he’s learning there was no anticipating how perfect Lightning would smell, or taste, or _feel._ That he could not, in his wildest dreams of taking him apart, imagined something so heartbreakingly _good._ He kisses his stomach, sucks marks into the heaving plane of it while he teases his cock with his hands, feels it pulse and throb between his palms. “Gonna show you. Ruin you for everything else,” he promises, getting skin and flesh between his teeth even though Lightning’s drawn so _tight,_ skin pulled against flexed muscle. He’ll wear him down, though, like he’s been worn down. He’s waited long enough, he can wait a little longer. 

“Already ruined,” Lightning murmurs, bucking his hips. “Fuck, please.” 

“Shh, got you,” Doc tells him, mouthing his way back down between his thighs. “You love your old man’s mouth on your cock, don’t you? You asked me when I knew I was gay because you’ve been tearing yourself up over wanting this so bad, huh?” he realizes. 

Lightning keens, twisting and writhing and whimpering, so fucking desperate it makes Doc _dizzy,_ knowing he can do this to him, that he can rob his cocky, arrogant little project of his composure on the track, _and_ in his bed. On his couch. In his mouth. “Yeah,” Lightning murmurs, face crumpling, hands fisting in the couch cushions. “Doc _please,_ suck it.” 

Doc couldn’t tease for much longer, anyway. He takes him in hand and swallows him down, flattening his tongue on the underside to create tight, hungry suction, cheeks hollowing, face wet. And he’s not as young as he used to be, but he still thinks he could spend hours like this, ignoring the ache of his knees, the stiffness of his back and jaw. He could die right here, Lightning McQueen hitting the back of his throat, filling the slick suck of his mouth. 

But, as it turns out, Lightning is clearly not one for endurance. In a few minutes his cock is twitching, balls tightening against Doc’s knuckles as his moans get higher, thinner. Doc would pull off and draw it out more if he wasn't so fucking desperate to taste his come. To swallow it all, feel it burn down his throat like the shots of whiskey they shared along that dark highway which led them here. 

Lightning gasps as it happens, his hand tightening in Doc’s thinning hair, scrambling for purchase as he empties himself. And long after he’s stopped shooting off, Doc stays there milking him, sucking him down, cock still hard and twitching between his lips. It’s not until Lightning’s grip slackens and he hisses, trying to roll away that he slides off, panting. “Too much?” he asks, hands all over him now what he knows he can touch, that Lightning _wants_ him too. He rubs his thighs, his sides, up to his ribcage which is expanding and contracting erratically as he catches his breath. 

“Just enough,” Lightning tells him, face splitting into a lazy, complacent grin. And Doc is standing unsteadily, wondering if he’s allowed to kiss that smile when Lightning settles the matter for him, reaching up and hooking his fingers into the collar of his shirt before pulling him down again. “Mmph,” he mumbles against his swollen lips before licking sloppily between them, then out to the corner of his mouth, up into his mustache. “I thought you might taste like whiskey. That's how I always imagined it,” he mumbles, eyes sly and blue and dark and beautiful. “But you just taste like my cock.” 

“Yup,” Doc murmurs, biting at his lower lip, hauling him into his arms as he collapses beside him. “Well. Get used to it, kid.” 


End file.
